


Kiss Me When I'm Down

by Princesszellie



Series: Prompts and Drabbles [23]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe- Not Related, Hansencest - Freeform, M/M, a softer side perhaps, scott is a speical child sometimes, self destruction at its finest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-22 23:54:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4855442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princesszellie/pseuds/Princesszellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Writers block is the bane of any musicians existence, but Scott has his ways around it. Side effects be damned....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss Me When I'm Down

Writers block always had the worst possible timing. He had been on a roll! Words and notes had been flowing freely through him to the keys of the piano and the scrap of paper that was serving as the official copy so far…but then all of a sudden a whole fuck ton of nothing.

Scott had been staring at the literal wall for half an hour or more, eyes unfocused and all creativity at a standstill. Fuck. This wasn’t working for him. It was time to bring out the big guns.

Generally Scott saved his personal home stash for more important, usually sex related, activities. But today the writer’s block was causing him intense anxiety (which could also just be jonesing) so he made the decision to indulge. It started with one little bump, and when all that did was give him the jitters, he did another slightly larger one.

He wasn’t sure yet if it was one gram too many, so he paced the living room humming to himself trying to get unstuck. So far the piece had good rhythm and melodically it was sound; it was the lyrics that were, as usual, fucking him over. Scott had never gone into this ‘industry’ to become famous. In reality he really just never wanted to have a ‘normal person’ job. He didn’t like taking orders, getting out of bed, or being sober; and so far this had been working out just fine for him.

While fame had not found him so far, he had not been unlucky with success. Just because no one knew ‘Scott’s’ name and voice, didn’t mean the world didn’t know his music. Under an alias he currently had _two_ songs on the charts, one of which was currently in the Top Twenty being sung by a very popular artist. Of course only he and his agent knew about this fact, not that he cared. All that mattered was that those two babies keep royalties rolling in.

He lived in a better then a barhopping musician should be able to afford apartment, and a coke habit to support. He also had a serious weakness for vintage guitars. So Scott wrote two types of songs- songs for others to sing to make money, and honkytonk crap to keep for himself. As of now the song in process hadn’t identified which category it wanted to be in- it didn’t even have a chorus.

Somehow, in events he couldn’t explain, he had ended up on the floor between the coffee table and the couch; and that was how Herc found him some time later. Herc let himself in the unlocked door and after calling out for the apartment’s occupant and getting no response just walked in- to find Scott sprawled on the floor, one leg kicked up on the couch. He looked dead at first glance, but after a quick assessment of the area- which contained a lot of drug paraphernalia- he surmised Scott was just on a bender. Not a reason to panic.

Herc took in the spectacle for a minute- it was worth taking it all in- before disturbing it. “Scotty,” he said aloud softly as he plopped down on the couch next to Scott’s bare foot. He gave the bottom of the extended digit a light _flick_.

Scott’s gorgeous hazel and blue green eyes popped open. At first all he saw was light, burning light and random colors but finally they focused blurrily on Herc’s form hovering above him. “Oh good you’re here.” He chirped from the floor, like he totally expected him to be there. Scott tried to sit up, which was a futile effort. Herc watched with bemusement. There was a whine of distress then Scott got belligerent, “You come down _here_.” It was the demand of a child.

Herc rolled his eyes heavenward and asked some god for patience. This was not Scott’s _normal_ binge personality. That Scott, who was the preferred one, was a lust filled animal that couldn’t get out of its clothes and into very compromising situations fast enough. This….this was a fucking five year old. What the hell was up with that? Herc dropped to the floor beside the other man. “What are you doing?” A rhetorical question really.

“I’m writing.” Scott answered while excitingly rubbing his face all over Herc’s thigh, which he had just wrapped himself around. Ugh, Herc always smelled _so good_. Why was that?

There was no evidence of any sort of writing- or any other legitimate activities- so Herc was more than skeptical. “Sure you were,” he patronized, “whatever you need to justify a midday hit….”

“I was.” Scott insisted gazing up at him with those spectacular eyes, which were blown wide and wild. Riding a high was a fine line between melancholia and mania, and he was still saddled to the mania. It was just not his typical mania. He felt like he was floating above his body, giddy and breathless. It was odd, but not unpleasant, and now that Herc was here with him…maybe he would be inspired or some shit.

Herc listened straight faced to the unexpected outpouring of pure unadulterated, drug induced _babble_ that flowed out of Scott’s mouth. It was like he had been _waiting_ for this moment to prove to Herc that he was an absolutely lost cause. Jesus. What the actual fuck. Once he got going Scott couldn’t stop himself- and he had no control over what he was saying. His brain really wasn’t even involved. It truly was like he was having an out of body experience.

In some slightly more lucid pocket of his mind he wondered if this particular batch had somehow gone off, or if it was laced with something else. When he was sober he would figure out who he had got it off of and _not_ buy from them again. Clearly something was wrong with it. That was of course the risk of recreational drug use, running afoul of something nastier then what you were consciously buying, but he had always had decent luck. This was just a fluke. Certainly no reason to stop….

Finally, thank god, Scott ran out of stupid things to say and he settled for gazing up at Herc adoringly. Herc stared back at him silently. He had mostly enjoyed the show but for some reason the sudden silence unnerved him. His experience with junkies wasn’t vast, but what he had encountered while deployed was not pretty- he knew their moods were subject to fast changes and sometimes prone to violence. At the moment Scott stayed quiet and peaceful, and was maybe even asleep, which would be a blessing.

Very carefully Herc started to get up. Scott’s eyes snapped open again; he had the most brilliant idea ever. “Let’s make pancakes!”

“Excuse me?” Herc asked incredulously.

“Let’s…make…pancakes…” Scott repeated slowly, like Herc was the one on drugs an unable to understand basic concepts. “I have all the stuff somewhere.” He made a concentrated effort to get up which involved rolling around like a flipped turtle, and would have ended with cracking his head on the coffee table had Herc hadn’t shoved it out of the way a second in time.

Now on his hands and knees, Scott made several attempts to standup- all of which failed. With a heavy, aggrieved sigh Herc pulled his struggling companion to his feet. Scott laughed and wrapped his arms playfully around Herc’s neck, “Thanks mate,”

Herc shook his head, “Where are you going.”

Scott pointed vaguely in the direction of the kitchen, and as Herc was the only reason he remained upright, the pair made their slow, wobbling way there. It was Herc’s genuine hope that Scotty had forgotten his harebrained demand for pancakes, but alas not so. With the focus that only cocaine could (sometimes) bring he tried to make his way to the cupboard.

“Whoa now, sit.” Herc ordered as Scott proceeded to empty the entire contents of the dishwasher with maniacal precision. Scott was promptly guided to a chair and made to sit like a good boy, and given a nice big glass of water. God he was thirsty, apparently, because he chugged the whole thing.

“Pancakes.” The demand was repeated again, and now Herc knew he couldn’t get out of it. He was certain that he had _never_ in his life made pancakes. A box of pancake mix was being shoved in his hands with increasing aggression. Herc took it from Scott’s slightly trembling grasp before they were both wearing its powdery contents. Fuck this. How hard could it be? He started reading the directions printed in microscopic print on the wrinkled cardboard and realized he was still out of his depth.

Scott attempted to be helpful and rummage out kitchen supplies, but as he didn’t really spend a lot of time in his own kitchen or cook, he didn’t know where shit was either. After every cabinet and drawer had been opened and rifled, they somehow cobbled together the necessary tools for making pancakes.

Herc stood at attention over the stove and frying pan, spatula in hand. He could shoot a dictator dead from thirty stories up without a scope, he had recently defused a dirty bomb, and was fluent in three languages; and yet he had already burned five of these fucking bread puddles. What the fuck.

Scott on the other hand was enjoying himself. He was leaned against the counter, finger tips keeping time as he hummed. The music was back, and he let it wash over him. Words and melodies jumbled around in his head-new songs mixed with old ones making a cacophony that was hard to cut through. To help with that Scott rummaged in the fridge for a beer. He absently sang the current- future chart topper without realizing he was.

“I never thought I’d hear you sing _that_.” Herc snorted. Romantic crap wasn’t Scott’s style.

“I wrote _that_.” Scott retorted deadpan and popped the cap off the beer in his hand with a flourish.

Herc stopped mid-flip to stare at him. The look on the other man’s face said he wasn’t kidding, and now that Herc thought about it, that song _did_ have several of Scott’s trademark sounds in it. Scott gave him a ‘so there’ look and left him standing slightly agape while he sauntered out to the piano.

The addition of alcohol to the mix seemed to have unblocked the music, yes….yes this was good. Plunking at the keys quickly turned to full playing and humming along turned into singing. He filled the space around him with the special kind of magic that only visited when he was high. Herc honestly enjoyed listening to Scott work his craft, even with the occasional stop and start and more than a few curse words that wouldn’t make the final version. It almost made his cooking task less hateful- _almost_.

When he had finally produced more than a handful of paltry half burned offerings, Herc went into the living room to bring his nightingale its exigencies. He stood in the door way and watched Scott who was swaying on the piano bench, and not all in time with the music. Oh it was going to be so much fun when Scott puked these stupid things up later.

Scott was feeling it, feeling _everything_. The air was filled with color, vibrating with sounds only he could hear…he hadn’t felt like this in a long time. He _was_ the music, this was going to be his opus (this time for sure!). It was glorious; it was life, and it was almost finished. The last piece was _right there_ on the tip of his tongue…Scott literally threw himself into the music……and ended up on the floor again.

“Shit.” Herc gasped as the piano made a totally jarring _clanking_ sound, and Scott went ass over teakettle off the bench. That was unexpected. Setting the plate of misshapen pancake-like blobs on the hastily vacated piano bench, Herc bent over Scott. “You okay mate?”

Scott was staring up at the ceiling with wide, blank eyes. He was seeing things Herc couldn’t. Or he was having a seizure. It was fifty-fifty. His lips were moving, the whispers of the chorus that just wasn’t quite right running over them. Sometimes songwriting was very much like chasing an orgasm; he was so close to the climax but just…couldn’t quite…

“ _Kiss me when I’m down…._ ” he breathed. There it was the release he need, craved. God, it felt so good…his body arched just as it would have had it been a physical culmination instead of a metaphysical one.

Herc had no idea if that was a statement, a suggestion or an order. It didn’t matter much either way, so he obeyed and kissed Scott deeply, right where he sprawled on the cold, hard floor.

**Author's Note:**

> “Come on over… Drink my wine… Waste my candles… Waste my time… Tell me lies… I won't believe… Just don't wake me when you leave. Come on over …Kick me to the ground….. Kiss me when I'm down”
> 
> Title comes from Gary Allen's song "Kiss me when I'm down" from the album - Get off on the pain. Tell me that this chorus doesn't just epitomize these two!? Ugh, first time I heard this song I had wonderful chills and it just SCREAMED Scott. Kills me every...damn...time. The piano solo with Gary's voice just IS Scott for me. 
> 
> @setsailslash requested a time where they weren't just having angry sex or beating someone up...or whatever it is they do (lol), so I hope this fits the bill. Scott's addiction isn't all pancakes and pretty songs and amazing sex....and Herc knows that. The problem is Scott doesn't really....apparently. At some point he will lose control of it, and it wont be something as innocent as pancakes....
> 
> The next one will be darker...much...;)


End file.
